


I don't wanna be you anymore

by things-we-used-tc-share (Heavydirtys0ul)



Series: the billie eilish tapes [11]
Category: Sanders Sides (Web Series)
Genre: depression tw, vent fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-28 00:36:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 743
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22694914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Heavydirtys0ul/pseuds/things-we-used-tc-share
Summary: Virgil isn't sad, he's just tired.
Series: the billie eilish tapes [11]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1281875
Comments: 2
Kudos: 22





	I don't wanna be you anymore

**"Tell the mirror, what you know she's heard before,**

**I don't wanna be you anymore,"**

**-I don't wanna be you anymore, Billie Eilish.**

* * *

Virgil blinks lightly at his own reflection, a cold sense of understanding curling through his spine as his eyes meet his own self. Brown, a dark brown with the lightest flecks of a honey sort of colour around the iris; the same eyes he’s had his entire life. He’s more than used to his own expression, used to the same pale skin, cracked pink lips. Used to the exhaustion on his face. The sun peers through the window, a golden glow that illuminates his dark hair just a little, making him feel a little less dull, a little less cold. Something more… _human_.

It’s not that Virgil dislikes himself, not really, not entirely; he’s a little tired of himself, tired of the same routine, the same panic attacks, the same quiet words falling from his mouth, tired of how he sounds and acts and looks. He’s even tired of the piercings he’s had for about two months, two through his bottom lip. No matter what he does, no matter how hard he tries, he still finds himself exhausted with himself. It’s almost as if life is too dull and too rhythmic for him to truly be content with his own existence. He just simply doesn’t want to be himself anymore.

His doctor calls that depression, mostly Virgil just thinks being alive is boring.

He looks away from the mirror, drags his cold body to the shower and begins the same day he’s been living since he was 11 years old; always somewhere to be and nowhere that he actively wants to be. Always moving forward but never truly going anywhere at all, not really, where is there to go anyway. School, work, the shower, bed, the kitchen, the outside street. Virgil is starting to feel like a ghost in his own body; well, in truth, he’s felt that way for an indiscernible amount of time. Like he’s not really real at all. If you lived your entire life in front of an icy reality that feels mostly like being in a come but still up and about and walking, you would probably feel that way too. Like your hands and your feet do all the thinking for you, go through the movements without really knowing or feeling anything at all. 

Depression, indeed. But a very quiet sort, he’s not actively suicidal, he’s never tried to kill himself, he’s never even thought about it outside of jest-full conversation. Some days, absently, he contemplates if death would be more fun than life thus far has been. He always hopes and prays life will not be an eternity spent in a numb bliss, not quite sad enough to end it, not happy enough to want to live either. Limbo.

Virgil barely feels the hot water on his skin, nor the fabric of his clothes, the blisters on his feet as he slides on his boots, the strain of his muscles once he starts his work. He works in a warehouse, his workmates are neither pleasant nor unpleasant, but they have a laugh. Virgil knows in the back of his mind that they know how he feels, but the day men discuss their problems outside of explosive rage would be the day the earth stands still. They don’t know he’s gay, he gets the feeling they won’t want to know any more than he would like to discuss it. They’ve all been trained to keep their mouths shut and deal with everything as it comes.

Later, he gets into bed after swallowing his meds without enough water, they scrape the back of his throat and his stomach lurches but he doesn’t really notice that either. If you looked into his eyes nothing much would stare back.

Virgil doesn’t want to be himself anymore. He doesn’t think he will ever want to be himself, he doesn’t think he wants to be anyone else either. No, for the most part he just wants to be asleep. A long, silent sleep.

Wouldn’t that be bliss?

So he goes to sleep, and he wakes up the next day feeling exactly the same. He’ll feel like that for a few more years, slaving away to capitalism until the prospect of suicide seems very tangible. Not because he’s sad, he isn’t sad at all. He’s just tired.

Very, **_very_** tired.


End file.
